“The reports I’ve read say that shot came from the back,” said Robert.
“Behind the President.”
“I know what they said, Mr. Veil. I’m telling you I hit him in the throat. The reports also say the doctors widened the throat wound during surgery. No one could tell it was an entry wound.”
“A sharpshooter could’ve hit him anywhere,” said Thorne. “Why the throat? Why not just go for the head shot right away?” Charlie winced. “Instructions. Edward Rothschild wanted him to suffer. He wanted the President to know he was about to die.” Charlie lowered his head and took a deep noisy breath.
“About this time I became aware of gunshots other than mine. I didn’t know there would be another shooter. It didn’t surprise me, not on a mission like this. Rothschild and the others wanted to be sure Kennedy didn’t make it out alive.”
“There were two men posted near the curb where the motorcade passed. One opened an umbrella. The other waved as Kennedy rode by, my signal for the final shot. Governor Connally turned around, as though trying to look at the President, now slumped toward the First Lady. She looked at Connally, then at her husband, now almost in her lap. I’d received specific instructions not to harm her. They said the country would get over the assassination of the President, but not the killing of its Queen.”
“I trained my site, squeezed the trigger, and watched the President’s head explode in a shower of blood and brain. He was gone. No one ever survives a direct head shot.”
Charlie dabbed at his eyes. “I quickly slipped my rifle back into the bag. A low murmur from the crowd turned into full-blown panic and confusion, like it always does. First the crowd is too stunned to react. A few moments later, it sinks in and the commotion starts. The perfect cover for escape. Everyone will say they saw the same thing, but they’ll all see it differently. A hundred people, a hundred different versions.”
“And that’s when they played the double-cross,” said Robert.
“Yes,” answered Charlie. “I started for the car and spotted one of the men taking pictures of me. Obviously not part of the plan. We chose the area to avoid being seen or photographed. Yes, it was a set-up, a double-cross.”
“One of the men rushed me with a large jagged knife, and slashed at my throat. He missed. I grabbed his arm, rammed the knife below his rib cage, and forced the blade up into his heart. By the time he hit the ground one of the others snatched me from behind, while another rushed forward.”
“I wiggled free, broke one guy’s neck, and kicked the man rushing me to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of the yard. I picked up the camera and bag and tossed them in the car. I could hear people running and screaming.”
“A policeman, gun drawn, ran into the yard in my direction, ordering me to raise my hands. I shouted for him to calm down, identified myself as Secret Service, then showed him my credentials. He looked a little inexperienced, you know, a rookie. I pointed to the guys on the ground and told him to go get a few officers and come back to secure the scene.
When he left, I jumped inside the station wagon, pulled out of the yard, and disappeared in the commotion. The police stopped me several times.
I just flashed my identification and kept moving.”
“Where did you go after that?” asked Robert.
“Up to that point things happened so fast I didn’t have time to think about what I’d done. I concentrated on staying alive. I took a chance and tried to contact my CIA handler, Vernon Campbell.” Robert’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the Director of the CIA?”
“Yes, he recruited me in the first place.”
“When I couldn’t get in touch with Vernon, I called Jack Ruby, our failsafe in case something went wrong. I couldn’t find him either. Then came Oswald. I’d met him twice at Ruby’s club, but we never talked. He just sat at the table with his drink, and occasionally whispered to Ruby.” Charlie took another deep breath. “After his arrest, Oswald said I’m just a patsy. That’s how it’s done. We learned it from the Germans.
First assassinate, then immediately accuse someone. It draws attention away from the facts, and when the accused is killed or silently stored away, the door is closed. All that’s left are rumors, accusations, and conspiracy theories. Even if someone discovers the truth, no one will believe it. The truth and the lie look the same.”
“The next few weeks flashed by. I contacted my wife and directed her to take our daughter to my safehouse in Kentucky. Samantha was eight years old, but her mother and I married a few months before Dallas.
No one knew they existed.”
Charlie broke down and wept like a child. Robert took a few steps, but Charlie waved him away.
“Rothschild paid me a million dollars up front. I established identities for the three of us, and a plan to disappear.” Charlie’s voice cracked. “I never saw them again.”
“I managed to slip back into Washington. I hid among the crowds flocking to President Kennedy’s funeral. I rode the train part of the way and hitchhiked the rest. The whole thing began to unnerve me, and for the first time I had regrets. I’d killed here in the states, but someone usually deserved it, like a gangster, a terrorist, or a radical. This time, traveling through town after town, I saw devastation in the eyes of almost everyone. I wasn’t so sure Kennedy deserved to die.” Charlie’s eyes pleaded with Robert and Thorne for forgiveness. He didn’t get it. Robert swelled with disgust and anger. He believed Charlie deserved to die for what he did, no matter how sorry or beat down he felt.
“I tried to make contact with several of my associates in the Agency.
Nobody responded. When the White House and Senate organized the Warren Commission, I knew I didn’t have much time. They’d work me in as a suspect, and the manhunt would begin. I knew they had the film Abraham Zapruder shot. It clearly showed my final shot hitting the President in the head, dead on. Not to mention the eyewitness accounts.
So I took a big chance.”
Charlie stopped to stretch his legs and asked for another break.
Thorne declined before Robert could speak, ordering the old man to sit his ass down and finish. He looked at Robert who shrugged his shoulders. Charlie reluctantly sat back down.
“I dressed up in Navy officer digs, acquired the proper papers, and marched into the Bethesda Naval Hospital where President Kennedy’s autopsy took place. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in the hospital covertly, so I knew its security procedures and schedules. I slipped into an area called “cold storage,” where the hospital kept sensitive information. I knew any files concerning the President would be there. I killed the guard at the door, dragged him inside, took everything I could find, and left. Autopsy photos, detailed recordings from the coroner on the bullet wounds, projected trajectory angles, and every medical note.
In a large brown enveloped stamped FBI, I found the bullet fragments. In a large tin cylinder sitting in a freezer, I found President Kennedy’s brain, mangled and sliced open. I took it all, combined it with the rifle, notes, and everything else, then hid it all where no one would look.”
“I sent a message to Rothschild. Vernon Campbell and several others met me in the basement of Old Ebbits Grill. Things didn’t go well.
They roughed me up, and tried to make me tell where I’d hid the evidence. When I wouldn’t, Rothschild showed up. I still didn’t talk. If I did, I’d be dead. I told Edward I’d made arrangements for the evidence to go to the Washington Post if they killed me. They backed off and let me go.”
“They trailed me night and day. The next thing I know, one year turned into almost forty. I could’ve played hardball and blackmailed Rothschild, but the whole thing took its toll. I just wanted to be left alone. The next thing I knew, Robert Kennedy, King, and so many others, died. All the markings of a coup, and I’d started it all.” Charlie coughed hard into the towel spotting it with blood and phlegm. Robert replaced it with another.
“Who else knew about this, I mean, how far up did it go?”
Robert asked.
“I was just a trigger man. These things usually go all the way to the top,” Charlie replied.
“You mean President Johnson?” Thorne asked.
“And Hoover,” Charlie added. “I’m convinced they both knew and didn’t raise a finger to stop it.”
“Now you sound like Oliver Stone,” Robert joked.
“Don’t laugh,” said Charlie, still serious. “He surprised even me.” Robert leaned forward. “How could you do it? He was the President of the United States for God’s sake. Where was your honor?”
“Things were different back then. I was different.”
“Really. You think so?” said Thorne.
“I don’t expect sympathy for what I’ve done,” said Charlie, his voice raspy, almost unintelligible. “I’ve lived a lifetime with the consequences.”
“Why bring it out now?” asked Robert. “Years have passed. Why didn’t you speak out a long time ago?”
“I thought about it every year. I mulled it over, but could never settle on the right moment. Now there’s DNA and other technology. And you’re the right man.”
Robert took a long drink of cold water, and sat the tall glass down on the coffee table. “How did you find out about me? You’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Homeless, living on the streets.”
“I still have a friend or two in the right places overseas,” Charlie answered. “They said you hate the Rothschild types as much as I’ve learned to. You’re not much different than I forty years ago. I made the wrong choices, you didn’t.”
“You make it seem like you picked out the wrong shirt,” said Thorne.
“It’s not that simple. We can go after Rothschild, but you pulled the trigger. What the hell do you expect us to do with you?”
“She’s right,” said Robert. “You’re as guilty, if not more, than Rothschild. You pulled the trigger. You deserve something worse than death.”
“I’ve lived a life worse than death,” Charlie shot back. “I’d rather be dead. If I didn’t have the evidence, I would’ve died a long time ago. If not by Rothschild, then by my own hand.”
“Where’s the evidence now?” Robert asked.
“Hidden,” Charlie told them. “In a mausoleum crypt at a cemetery here in the area. It’s been there since this whole thing started. I’d check on it now and then, no small task with Rothschild’s men watching. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going.”
“We’ll need the evidence if we’re going to make a case. Why did you take it back?
“Because you and your partner didn’t seem quite sure you were up to the task,” Charlie said. “I thought I’d made a mistake.”
“And now?” asked Thorne.
“Now it’s too late to stop. They know what we’re up to so our time is short. But before I give you the evidence, I need to know you’ll ride this out to the end.”
“We’re in all the way Charlie,” said Robert. “Only remember. You go down with the rest. You assassinated a President, and I don’t care how much remorse you feel or how long you’ve suffered on the streets.
We can’t just let you walk away.”
Charlie stared at Robert, his face wrinkled with grief. “I understand,” he said. "I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”
“What’s that?” asked Robert.
“Just a quote I like,” said Charlie.
Robert motioned for Thorne to stop taping and follow him into the kitchen. He asked her to take the tapes and secure them in their office safe. He’d go with Charlie to get the evidence. They’d meet back at his apartment and take it from there.
The sound of breaking glass sent them flying into the living room.
Charlie lay sprawled out on the couch, blood pouring from his chest and stomach.
Thorne crouched low and slid over to the window, a nickel-plated forty-five in her grip. Shredded curtains and broken glass from the window covered the floor. Thorne spied a dark figure running along the rooftop of the building across the street. “No use,” she said. “He’ll be gone by the time we get downstairs.”
Robert propped Charlie’s feet up and placed a pillow behind his head.
He snatched open the old man’s shirt. “Charlie, Charlie. Where’s the evidence?”
Charlie tried to speak. Wisps of air came from his lips. Robert couldn’t make out a word. “Charlie, we need the evidence! Don’t die on us!”
Charlie smiled. Blood gushed from his mouth. He looked relieved.
He tried to speak again, but only gurgled. Blood streamed down his cheeks. His chest stopped heaving. Robert checked for a pulse. He’s dead.
Thorne leaned down. “What now?” she asked, calm, controlled. “We don’t know where the evidence is, and without it, we’re sunk.” Robert closed Charlie’s eyes. “First, let’s get rid of the body,” he said. “No police.”
“And then?”
Charlie’s confession pounded like a mallet in Robert’s head. The evidence. How are we going to find the evidence? Two miles away, a shiny black Suburban calmly eased down Pennsylvania Avenue. On the backseat, a high-powered rifle, complete with a heat seeking infrared scope and directional microphone, lay hidden out of view. The vehicle drifted down the empty street. The driver slid a Merideth Brooks CD into the player, and sang along with the song “Bitch”.
Marilyn London lit a cigarette and smiled.
11
Andre Perchenkov didn’t always work as a serial killer. In the old Soviet Union, young, brash and arrogant, the KGB served as his private playground.
Good fortune faded when Mikhail Gorbachev opened the door to democracy. Russia’s newfound freedom melted into catastrophe and chaos. The haves got more, the have-nots turned desperate for the simplest necessities. The new administration found itself buried in regional military conflicts, a worthless currency, and an uncontrollable beast-the Russian mafia.
Money came quickly, but to Andre’s dismay, his brother, Vladimir, kept his hands in politics, supporting an underground movement set on restoring Communism. Soon, Vladimir caught the eye of the West, who labeled him a threat. Andre tried to persuade Vladimir to leave Russia by organizing the biggest heist in Russian history.
Hidden deep in a bunker outside Moscow, near a small town called Tula, lay a billion dollars in flawless counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.
From time to time, the phony money bought weapons on the black market, or financed terrorism around the globe, and proved a target grand enough to entice Vladimir away from the CIA’s gun sights.
Forty-eight hours after stealing the money, bone-jarring gunfire riddled Vladimir’s compound. Andre, knocked unconscious, awoke the next morning unharmed, but couldn’t find Vladimir. No body, no blood, not a trace.
Months later, the London Times reported the capture of a notorious Russian mafia drug czar. Vladimir Perchenkov. Wanted by the Americans, extradition came swift, conviction faster still. A federal judge sentenced his brother to two consecutive life sentences he’d never serve. They found Vladimir, wrists slit, dead in his cell.
Distraught, Andre plunged into a depression. When he recovered, the killing began. Andre left his Brentwood Park townhouse for copies of USA Today, the Washington Post, New York Times, and a cafe latte. America he hated, but loved her creature comforts.
He no longer spent time tilling soil in Judge Patrick’s garden. Citing security reasons, the Secret Service asked her to reduce the yard crew.
Andre got the ax, but managed to scam the layout of Judge Patrick’s home and intimate details of her life.
Brentwood Park, a typical, quiet suburb, proved the perfect place to hide. Andre’s clean-cut “white boy” facade blended in nicely. No one questioned his comings, goings, or how he managed to afford such an expensive townhouse. He kept to himself, rarely entertaining visitors, except for the occasional prostitute he’d sneak in durin
g the middle of the night.
Andre paused in front of his townhouse and skimmed the front page of the Times. His heart raced. SUPREME COURT CHIEF JUSTICE DIES OF HEART ATTACK. PRESIDENT TO APPOINT FIONA PATRICK.
“Mr. Bardoff! Mr. Bardoff! How are you this morning?” His neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an attention starved redhead, waved to him from her front door. Still in her nightclothes, a pink sheer robe, she motioned with one finger, inviting him over. The sunlight lit her silhouette from behind. Andre wondered why she wore anything at all.
“Sorry Ms. Parsons, but I’m in somewhat of a hurry this morning,” he said, in his best Eastern European accent.
“Now, now, Mr. Bardoff, I’ll have none of that,” she continued, making her way over to him. “We Americans appreciate a good neighbor you know.”
Scintillating in the morning glimmer, her forceful, rich green eyes said today’s excuses would not go over without a fight. Her hair, usually pulled back into a conservative bun, draped her shoulders like red strands of silk. Propped up on long, alluring, milky white legs, her breasts full and firm, (not the work of a surgeon), her thick dark nipples, like him, were hard, erect. Smiling, she put her hands on her hips and shook her finger at him in jest. “You’ve turned down my invitation for coffee every time mister, and quite frankly, I’m insulted.” Her robe fell open, and a white lace thong snuggled where he now longed to be.
“I’m sorry Ms. Parsons. It’s just that I’m so busy and…” She snatched him toward her place. He didn’t put up much of a fight.
“ Pussy can do what ten men with machine guns can’t, and with not nearly the mess.” Vladimir’s words rang in his ears as she pulled him inside and shut the door.
Gloria pushed Andre back against the door and kissed him hard. His instincts said stop, leave, but his erection offered a different opinion. He kissed her back, his thoughts drifting to Fiona Patrick.
He spun Gloria around, pushed her up against the door, snatched off her robe, and tore off her thong. He licked her body and sucked her breasts hard. “That a boy!” she said, wrapping a long leg around his back. “That’s what mama’s been waiting for.” Andre threw her down on the couch and quickly undressed. Gloria licked her lips. He closed his eyes and saw himself choking the life from Fiona Patrick’s body. The thought excited him. He straddled her, angrily thrusting and ramming hard.
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